The Angel of Mons - Chapter five

Five

The weather had been set for days. Cold heavy mist rolled around the hills, bolstered by thick smoke from the burning campfires. There was the constant sound of the opening and closing of firing mechanisms and the shouting of orders. An occasional shot would ring out often accompanied by the screams of men as they launched themselves loudly into a small army of straw filled effigies that hung from wooden poles and the few trees which littered the valley.
When in early November they had marched from Albury, George and his friends had thought they would be provided with a uniform and sent off to France. The army however had other ideas. Instead they found themselves camped out, with around four hundred other volunteers just outside Berkhamsted just five miles from their homes.
To George, basic training was an exercise in pain. They were woken at five every morning and forced to run around the field and the nearby castle four times, a distance totalling around ten miles. Then they were given breakfast, the content of which was usually difficult to identify. Kit inspection would follow, rifles uniforms, bayonets and boots. And then the marching, on grass and in mud, the area uneven and unpredictable.
The rest of the day was made up of crawling under and leaping over razor sharp barbed wire and rolling in thick cold rich Hertfordshire mud. Exercises would end at dusk and they would then begin the long process of cleaning their kit in preparation for inspection on the following day.
Their only break from the routine came on Saturday night when they were allowed some free time. There was a large marquee at the castle end of “Kitchener's field,” as it had become known. There, they were able to spend a shilling or two on watered down ale.
A piano, which contained an assortment of flat notes, was often played by a young Private who had joined up from Tring. After a few beers the gathered throng would sing the songs of soldiers.
On Sunday, reveille called them late, at o eight hundred hours. They had time to wash at the latrine area, which was little more than a collection of large tin buckets full of dirty cold water and a whole in the ground, all of which was surrounded by an assortment of filthy stinking tarpaulin.
At nine, the bugle sounded and they marched out of the compound, across the narrow track and into the grounds of the old ruined castle. There they stood in neat rows and prayed for the guidance of God. They sang ‘onward Christian soldiers,’ and anybody looking upon the scene could see how the words and lessons made each man swell and stand a little taller.
On the Sunday before Christmas, they marched as usual into the Castle grounds. And gathered among the remains of the old walls which had stood for nearly a thousand years.
George and his friends were standing in line in the bright cold crisp winter sunlight when he noticed something different about the pulpit. There was a chair set up alongside the wooden lectern.
He thought little of it and was quickly distracted when he caught sight of a kestrel, hovering above one the few remaining walls of the castle. It was riding on a slight up draft, waiting, the sun glinting off its fluttering wings, its head still its eyes focused. Behind it stood tall oak trees and horse chestnuts, which were sparsely covered with a few remaining rusty red leaves that had hung on through the wind and rain of winter. George wondered at the shear beauty of it all. Suddenly the bird dropped like a stone, it swooped and picked up a tiny creature, which snuffed out in an instant with its sharp talons. At that moment George’s attention was captured by the voice of his commanding officer who had taken up a position at the lectern while the vicar sat upright, looking dolefully at the back of the Captains head.
There was an audible intake of breath, as those assembled anticipated the reason for the break in routine.
The Captain announced in crisp precise terms that their training was over. They were to take five days leave. On the day of their return they would travel to London, on to the coast and across the sea to France. At that point a spontaneous cheer broke the stillness of the winters morning sending pigeons and crows squawking into the bright blue sky. The commanding officer, Captain Foster stepped back from the lectern smiling broadly and nodding his head as he looked around at the soldiers, in the way that a proud father may admire the achievements of his sons. From the back came the call of three cheers for the King, each chorus sending more birds skywards.
All George could think about was being home for a few days. His heart sank when he realised that they would march on Christmas Eve. But he resolved himself to live for the moment.
The vicar took to the lectern, his face solemn as if constantly in prayer. When he spoke, it was as if he were about to break into song, each word flowed seamlessly into the next. When he looked up he seemed to see through the men in front of him. His eyes moved from one face to the next but never seemed to make contact.
That morning the hymns rang out more than ever before. The notes at the end of each verse seemed to hang in the air before rolling off the castle walls, beyond to the hills, and into the heart of surrounding the countryside.
The men were called to stand at ease and the vicar began to deliver his sermon, rhythmically and softly. His voice was quiet, but clearly audible across the mass of troops.
He spoke of a greater power and how throughout history men had been called to take up arms against those who would seek to undermine His authority.
George noticed a mist begin to roll in slowly across the hills, gradually enveloping the winter sunlight. It brought with it a cool breeze, which made him, and those around him pull their collars tight and shuffle from one foot to the other. He noticed the Kestrel had returned and that the breeze was causing it to fight and struggle in its efforts to maintain a constant level flight.
George returned his attention to the sermon when he heard the subject change to the fighting in France. The vicar spoke of the early days and how the German advance had pressed heavy on the BEF which, had fought to hold its ground. He told how they hung on too long in a desperate attempt to allow the forces of the Allies to withdraw from the onslaught and prepare defences better equipped to hold the advance. He spoke of how the soldiers, exhausted and surrounded began to give up hope and how they dug in and awaited their fate.
The silence among the ranks in the castle walls assembled was broken only by the occasional distant call of crows and the musical rhythm of the voice of the man of the cloth. The soldiers stood still and attentive as if mesmerised by his words, like children being told a reassuring story, a story which would make them feel warm and secure.
He spoke of the vision, which came to those desperate men at a place called Mons. “A vision, white and bright, a protector. A vision which brought energy and hope, power and the belief in God as their protector. A vision which uplifted them, which, filled their hearts with belief. A vision which guided them through desperation and desolation to another place. It gave them the strength to lift their cannons and carry their weapons through forests and over fields, over rivers and fences.”
George looked to the sky; the sun was a golden ball behind the mist, warm in appearance but offering no comfort to his face.
The vicar paused and looked across his captivated congregation. “When they reached a place that was safe, the soldiers rested. They slept where they fell safe in the knowledge that they were right, because on those desperate dark days, God had a servant to watch over them, an Angel, the Angel of Mons.”
The priest looked to the heavens and held his palms above his head, and there he remained without moving. George frowned and then heard a voice behind him call “Amen.” The word spread from its origin and grew loader until all had said it, then, they said it again, “Amen,” and again and again until they were calling as one. George looked around him and saw that men were weeping. They held their hands in the air and looked to the sky. George frowned even more, but he too was calling. And the priest levelled his stare at his flock, he slowly lowered his hands and as he did the men became silent.

An hour later George and his friends sat in silence on the back of a cart as it clattered slowly through the cold rain on the road toward Tring. George looked across Peter’s shoulder where he could see a row of barges moored against the bank of the canal. Plumes of dark smoke pored from the thin metal chimney pipes. Some young children were playing on the bank, their cloths torn and their faces dirty, their smiles broad. Their laughter rang out across the valley.
Suddenly one of the children saw the cart and stopped playing. She stood still for a moment and raised her thumb to her mouth. Then she turned to the others, seven or eight of them in total and she called to them. George could not hear what it was that she said, but without hesitation the children formed a line on the side of the road and began to wave and cheer. Peter looked at George who raised his eyebrows and nodded in the direction of their young audience.
At that moment, the door of one of the barge cabins swung open and the sooty face of a young man appeared. He called to the children and in response they turned and pointed toward the road. The young man reacted by pulling himself up and standing on the tiny deck. He too was threadbare, he was young perhaps in his early twenties, he wore a waistcoat and a shirt with no collar and a large flat cap. He sprung with a single almost balletic movement from the boat and landed effortlessly on the bank, lake a cat descending from a low wall. He stood behind the children and put his hands on the shoulders of two of them. The children continued to cheer and as the cart drew close the young man took off his cap at began to wave it above his head. The children turned and looked up at him as he began to cheer with them, their faces glowing, and their smiles broader than ever.
Peter gestured to the rest of them, and they all stood up a little unsteadily at first. He turned to face their audience and the others followed, he saluted and the others did too. This brought about an even bigger cheer from the children. And as the cart passed them the girl turned to the man, “does this mean the war is over?” She asked. He looked down at her. His smile faded, he stroked her hair and slowly shook his head.
Turning back to the cart she called out again “Did you see it? Did you see the Angel?”
For a moment it felt to George as if the world was silent. He could not hear the cartwheels, nor could he hear the cheering of the children, all he was aware of was the face of the girl, her pale skin shining through the grime, her large grey eyes sparkling, innocent, full of hope.
The children stood and waved until the cart disappeared out of site. George and the others sat back down. They smiled and shrugged their shoulders but said nothing to each other for the rest of the journey.

In a bid to keep everything as normal as possible George’s mother went about her preparations for Christmas with her usual enthusiasm. The Gables was cleaned from top to bottom. The woods around the house were searched for mistletoe and holly. Wreaths were made and hung, and a large firtree was cut and made ready to be brought into the house, as always, on the evening of Christmas Eve. Game was hung in the scullery and all manner of baking was carried out producing an array of cakes, pies, bread and pastries.
But this was no ordinary year, and as he walked around admiring the organisation for the festivities, George wondered if there would ever be an ordinary Christmas again.
He began to long for the Christmas’s of old when he and Graham would wake early and sit by the roaring fires before heading off to church to celebrate the birth of Christ. This year, he knew that his place at the table would empty.
George spent time speaking to Graham who was approaching his fourteenth birthday. He’d been amused when Graham had asked if he would be coming home at night to sleep after he had finished his days work at the front.
“I shall be away for a while Graham,” he said smiling and ruffling his brothers hair.
George began to prepare his kit on the afternoon of the twenty third of December. He felt a deep aching pain, which seemed settled in the pit of his stomach and behind his eyes. He tried to convince himself that he would not miss the Gables once he was in France.
He looked out across the frozen landscape that surrounded the house. Red bracken covered the woodland floor and forlorn trees swayed gently in the cold breeze. The fire in his bedroom cracked and spat sparks onto the stone hearth. His concentration was broken, when the door to his room opened. George turned and there stood his mother and father.
“May we come in George?” Asked his mother quietly. George smiled at her as if surprised that they felt the need to ask. He noticed his father was carrying a large package. They walked across the room and stood with their backs to the fire, his father flexing slightly at the knees in appreciation of the warmth of the flames. His father said nothing, but simply stood gazing at George, puffing on his pipe.
“We’ve brought you this.” His mother hesitated before turning and taking the parcel from her husband. She looked at it and frowned, George noticed she was shaking very slightly. “We thought it would be useful.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a tiny lace handkerchief. George looked at his father who put his hand on his wife’s shoulder his brow furrowed. “We know it is a little early George, but of course you,” at that point she stopped, and turned to look at the fire. She took a deep breath and her body stiffened. George’s father’s face changed. He raised his right hand and placed his palm gently on her cheek. She looked up at him, took his hand and slowly lowered it away. He smiled at her.
“We know it’s early,” he said, “but with you going off tomorrow, we wanted you to have it.” He looked at his wife and smiled at her once more. She took another breath and turned to look at George. He noticed that she was crying.
“Tell George about tonight Henry,” she said looking back at her husband.
“Yes of course. We thought, if you like, we could move things forward a little and bring the tree in tonight, have the Pheasant, as if it were Christmas Eve, one day won’t matter. What do you think?”
“Heaven knows what we shall do with ourselves tomorrow night, but I suppose it can’t be helped,” said his mother characteristically.
George smiled at them both. They suggested he open his present. It was leather bound valet kit. It contained a hairbrush and shaving equipment, brushes for his shoes and his clothes, even a jar of wax for his hair. George thanked them both and wondered how he would be able to fit it into his kit bag. On the front of the brown leather case in gold lettering were his initials, GJC. He ran his finger across the embossed letters, which stood proud from the surface.
In the evening they drank sherry and George’s father opened the large doors, which led to garden. George, his father and Graham carried in the tree that stood eight feet tall in a large wooden barrel. George and his father looked on, as Graham and his mother decorated the tree.
When they were finished they turned out the gaslights and looked at the sparkling decoration which was lit by its fifty candles and by the warm glow of the logs burning brightly in the hearth.
That night, George slept lightly. He turned and woke, he watched the fire burn down, and felt the temperature begin lower on his face.
At two in the morning, he woke with a start and sat up. There were streams of perspiration running down his face; he looked around the room, turning his head in fast jerking movements. Eventually, he exhaled and lowered himself onto his elbows.
After a few minutes he was asleep again. His body was still, his breathing deep and rattling.
George dreamt that night that he was in a church, standing with his back to the altar. To his left stood his mother, his brother and his father, behind them were his friends and their families and many smiling faces some he knew, others he had never seen before. Liz was with Peter, she stood holding out a hand to George, looking first at him and then down to a baby she held rapped in a shawl.
To the right of the aisle were empty pews, and at the back, a single solitary figure of a man. He could see his shape but for some reason, he could not see his face. The man stood, and walked toward him. At first, George was afraid, he could feel his heartbeat harder and faster. The man got closer and closer, but still George could not see his face. Eventually he walked passed George and stood behind him. George was no longer afraid.

The next morning George wore his uniform when he went to breakfast. His father looked at him, stretched a smile and shook him by the hand. He said nothing. His mother insisted that he had a good breakfast. Graham played on the floor next to the range with a model train, which had once belonged to George. George envied his brother that morning; it was obvious he didn’t have a care in the world.
At five minutes to ten, George took a long look around his room. He looked out of the window into the misty morning. He adjusted the blankets on his bed and arranged his toy soldiers on top of the chest of drawers. He closed the door to his wardrobe and with a deep breath he put on his great coat, picked up his kit bag and made his way down stairs to the front door. His mother and father were in the drawing room.
“I had better be going now,” he said standing in the door.
His mother walked across to him and touched his cheeks with her fingertips. She held her head to one side and looked around his face as if she were examining every fold, every blemish, every detail of every feature. She smiled at him and ran her fingers through his hair.
“Take care son, let us know where you are if you can, so we can write.”
George nodded.
His father looked George in the eye and shook his hand. George noticed something different about him. He felt a tiny distance had appeared between them. As if they had been in contact, almost as if his father had held his hand all his life, gently, ever present. It felt as if that sub conscious bond was now broken and although still so close, they were no longer as one. For a moment, a black, frightening moment, George looked at his father and with no fear for himself at all, he wondered if he would ever see him alive again.
“Bye,” said Graham without looking up.
They walked with him to the door; George picked up his kit bag, stepped into the cold misty morning and marched down the drive. He didn’t look back.
When George had gone, his mother went to his room. She was about to rough up the pillow and pull out a creases on the bed when suddenly, she stopped herself. Instead, she ran her fingers around the indentation, which had been left by his head while he slept. When eventually she left the room, she locked the door and put the key in a draw in her dressing table.
When George reached the village, the others were waiting. Peter stood with Liz and his parents, Sid, Harry, David and Paul stood in a group exchanging the occasional word. David was preening his thin moustache proudly with the tips of his fingers while Paul was checking to see he had remembered to pack his bible.
Peter’s father had agreed he would take them into Berkhamsted. And so, just a few months after he was carried from the church in the sunshine with his new wife on their way to their wedding breakfast, Peter threw his bag into the red wheeled cart and climbed on board. As the others followed the friends and family looked on, and began to quietly applaud. The cart clattered past the pond, passed the old oak tree, crossed the Ashridge road and made its way on through the village to the London Road.
George had expected to march through the town, like Donald Rogers. But instead they left Kitchener's field at midday and marched four formed the few hundred yards to the railway station where they boarded a waiting train.
As the train pulled out of the busy station, George looked around the carriage at his friends. They had said little on the journey from Albury and now sat in silence watching the English countryside slip away behind them. The further they travelled, the more George began to experience a feeling of belonging. Even though it had been little more than two hours since he left the Gables, he felt strangely separate from the place, and for the first time in his life, from his family. They seemed almost to belong to someone else. Suddenly his childhood felt as if it had never happened, not to him anyway. To someone else perhaps, but not to him.
George caught Peter’s eye and they nodded to one another. David stood and took off his coat, he placed it on the seat and began to fold it meticulously turning in the sleeves, folding it in half and carefully placing it on a rack above his head. As he sat down, Harry farted. A long rumbling deep fart. They laughed all the way to Euston station.
Euston was black and full of smoke and noise. A group of women were handing out tea and sandwiches to the soldiers from a small market store at the end of the platform. George and the others took their drinks and waited with everyone else. The place was a mass of sound, hissing and blowing locomotives, black coal smoke, whistles the calling of commanding officers and the rhythm of marching men. That day, two hundred had left Kitchener’s field and they now stood huddled in small groups holding their drinks in both hands, getting the most out of the warmth the cups offered.
George felt it impossible to come to terms with the fact that just a few hours before, he had been saying goodbye to his parents and his brother at the Gables. He tried to imagine what they would be doing. Would they be thinking about him?
The call for them to form into columns broke his concentration.
They marched up the platform accompanied by the occasional applause and cheers from onlookers and the women who had served them their tea. They marched through the large black arch of Euston station and climbed on board a combination of commissioned Clapham omnibus’s and trucks, which were to take them on the next stage of their journey through London and on to Waterloo.
George and his friends found themselves sitting upstairs on an open topped double decker bus. They shuffled and smiled, pulled their collars up and tied their scarves tight. It was growing dark as they headed down toward Marylabone, weaving their way across town through a multitude of small squares with their neat little gardens and grand houses.
The night air was thick with acrid smoke, which hung like a yellow mist all around them. The streets were quiet save for the occasional handsome cab, and carriage, carrying couples in evening dress to the many functions being held that Christmas Eve.
The convoy eventually pulled up outside the main entrance to Waterloo station. They disembarked, formed up and marched up the steps, through the long curved thoroughfare, and onto platform number one. They marched down the train pausing only briefly as each of them handed over their kit bags, which were tossed unceremoniously into the mail coach.
Once on board, George led his friends down the corridor, which was packed with men, standing, smoking, talking, laughing and playing cards. For the first time, they stood shoulder to shoulder with other men who had answered the call. George felt an almost overwhelming sense of strength, hope and optimism. All around was a feeling of excitement. He knew that within a few hours they would be in France. All the training was done and they would have a chance to make their contribution.
George led them virtually to the front of the train where they were lucky enough to find an empty compartment into which they spread out. Sid stood with his back to the door to give anyone passing the impression that it was full in the hope that they would move on leaving them with room to sit in comfort, even to sleep. George slid open the narrow window, and by removing his cap and carefully tilting his head to one side he was able to look out across the platform. George moved over when he felt Peter pressing against his side, and eventually they both managed to stand side by side at the window. All the way down the train he could see the heads of other men protruding from the tiny openings.
On the platform the wives and sweet hearts, mothers and fathers of the soldiers of one of the London regiments were crying, waving and smiling at their loved ones. And then, a whistle blew and with a burst of white energy, smoke and steam the great locomotive panted a deep throbbing powerful breath and took its first rolling slipping steps away from the platform and into the darkness.
The crowd on the platform stepped with the train, lengthening their stride as it quickened until eventually they could no longer keep up, they stopped and slipped away, arms waving, blowing kisses and wiping away tears.
As the train gathered pace and worked its way toward the end of the platform, George turned and smiled at Peter. But Peter didn’t look at him, instead he was frowning. Peter nodded toward the station and George turned to see what had caught his attention.
Two platforms away, he saw a line of around one hundred men, in uniform. They had been hidden from direct view in the station by a large brown tarpaulin, which had been hung from the stations ornate iron pillars. The men weren’t marching, they were shuffling. Each had his right hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him and they all had dirty brown and grey bandages round rapped around their eyes.
Peter pulled in his head and sat down, his face was white. He looked at George as he too sat down directly opposite him. George bit his lip and looked at his own reflection in the window. Eventually he looked at Peter and gently shook his head. Peter nodded and smiled as if he were trying to reassure his friend.
“I am going to see if I can’t get my hands on some food. Anyone coming with me?” Called Sid above the clattering of the carriage wheels as they crossed the points outside the station.
Harry volunteered to go and they disappeared into the crowded corridor.
The crossing had been calm and as the sun was beginning to rise on a cold clear Christmas morning, George and Peter stood side by side as the flat grey French coastline emerged from the sea. George was amazed that he could still clearly see the White Cliffs of Dover behind them. He had had no idea that France was so close and always imagined the journey to foreign lands to be so much further so much more rigorous. Other than a few hours delay at Dover this journey had been a good deal easier than driving sheep to market he thought.
As the coast drew them in, the sky grew into a burning red. High wispy clouds formed ghostly shapes above them some taking on the appearance of giants, their arms outstretched or huge birds souring through the cold winter sky.
Although the journey had been shorter than expected, George felt that home was far far away. It felt almost as if he had past into another life and anything to do with the Gables was a dim and distant dream. He felt his heart beat faster as fears of never seeing home again weighed heavy. He tried in his minds eye to re trace the steps of the journey, to re count the miles travelled. He looked at his watch and calculated that if he were able to turn tale, he could be home with Graham, his Mother and his Father in time for supper in front of the fire.
George looked at Peter who had his chin on the ships rail and was staring down into the cold waters. He wondered if he too were taking a journey home in his mind.
When the ship docked and they disembarked, they marched through the port to a vast canvass covered area where they were given breakfast, cigarette rations and sum tins of Bully Beef to carry with them until they got to their billets.
A fierce red faced sergeant major called them to attention and they were led down the coast to a tiny railway station where they were loaded onto cattle trucks.
George and his friends put their kit bags at the back of the carriage and stood at the large sliding door, watching as the other troops, men from the south of England, Essex and Middlesex marched passed and climbed on board. There were twenty-five to a carriage, usually used to transport livestock.
The door was left open as the train pulled away from the low platform and passed the small pristine yard and station buildings, it crossed a narrow road where a cart waited for the train to pass, a French man sat impassively, watching the carriages slip by.
George laughed when he saw Sid smoking a cigarette. He had lit it and taken a long draw, which he had sucked boldly into his lungs, only to erupt in a violent coughing fit. “Bloody hell!” He exclaimed between coughs, “That’s better.”
Following his example, they all broke into their rations.
George looked at the countryside, which was flat and dull. He noticed the small tatty houses, which, with their broken shutters and peeling paint looked so different from anything he had seen before. He thought about he families inside and wondered how they would be celebrating Christmas. They passed a magnificent high spire church and George could see hundreds of people milling around outside. There didn’t seem to be any young men. Just woman, children and old folk. It occurred to him that Albury would be very much the same as would tens of thousands of churches all over Europe.
An embankment suddenly blocked his view and they entered a cold dark tunnel and smoke from the panting engine pored hot and oily into the carriage.
When they disembarked they marched about a mile to a large half-timbered farm where they stood in line and waited to be addressed by their commanding officer.
Very much to George’s surprise he told them in a crisp arrogant manner that they were to leave their kit in the barn, to get some lunch from the catering marquee. At fourteen hundred hours, they had orders to move up to the front, where they would be on duty for three days.
George looked around him, and saw nothing but smiling faces, when they were dismissed they all shook hands and slapped each other on the back. George took the advice of his sergeant and quickly wrote home. He addressed his letter to his mother and told them that the journey had been uneventful and that having just arrived, they were about to get their first taste of the front line. He asked her to pass on her love to his father and Graham. He had never had cause to write a letter to his parents before, and as he posted it into a make shift box, he thought about the slip of paper making its way home, to be shortly held by his mother.
They ate chicken with vegetables and George and the men were surprised how good it was.
At the scheduled hour the Hertfordshire’s, all eighty of them, four officers and seventy six men of other ranks, marched out of the farmyard, their heads held high, their rifles on their backs, their boots polished to perfection. The colours and the union flag hung in front of them. Peter, Harry, Sid and George marched alongside one another and George took the occasional glance down the line. Sid had tears running down his face and had to sniff continually as they made their way in the freezing cold, down the long straight, tree lined road.
Eventually they turned off the road and were led across a frost-covered field. The sun was low on the horizon. George could feel the cold on his face. He was surprised how quiet it was. He could hear nothing but his own boots on the hardened white soil his own breathing and that of those around him. They marched for a further ten minutes before making their way up a small incline. A tiny aeroplane popped and banged as it circled above.
When they reached the top, George thought he could see for miles. Up ahead, the ground was turned and huge craters littered the earth. The low sun left long shadows and seemed to emphasise the cuts and scares even more. As far as the eye could see, to the left and to the right there was mile upon mile of wooden posts tangled with grey barbed wire which from a distance looked like miles of silken spiders web. A little more than half a mile ahead, he could see the British trenches cutting broad swathes into the ground, twisting and weaving, slashing through roads and woodland. The trees had been reduced to bare trunks. Occasionally the sun caught the bright metal of a bayonet causing it to flash brightly ahead of them. Then he saw the same thing happen, but on the other side of the churned landscape. The German side. It looked to him like the two trenches were separated by nothing more than a hundred yards.
They passed a battery of huge artillery. The bombardiers didn’t seem to notice them as they marched passed their positions. They were to busy cleaning the weapons or eating or smoking or sleeping.
They walked down the ridge and in front of them, a narrow trench, headed directly toward the front line.
There, they waited.
The Captain called them to stand down, and the men huddled together in small groups, rubbing their hands and jumping on the spot. They all smoked in the hope that the burning cigarette may provide a little warmth in the plummeting temperature. It was then that George noticed heavy grey clouds rolling over and blocking out the thin cold sunlight. Shortly after it began to snow.
They waited for nearly half an hour at the head of the supply trench before they were disturbed by the sound of marching men.
George had never seen men like these before. Their eyes were empty. They were unshaven and their clothes were dirty. Their faces, their skin was grey and patchy, every step they took looked laboured and heavy. They were silent; he couldn’t even hear them breathing. All of them looked ahead as far as the man in front. None of them seemed to notice their replacements at all. Their captain stopped briefly and saluted the officers of the Hertfordshire’s. Captain Foster handed him a cigarette, which he drew in deep, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. George over heard him explain that they had been up at the front line for three days. It had been very quiet the whole time. The Captain then joined the back of the line of men and they marched away into the late afternoon.
Captain Williams lead them down to the entrance of the supply trench, where they were each handed heavy packs of food and water. They were told to carry them on their shoulders at first, but to listen for the order to take the cargo down when they got near the front, or they would attract enemy fire.
The journey down the supply trench twisted and turned, it felt to George like it was never going to end. His back and arms were aching and his legs were beginning to cramp. He was relieved when the order came to lower the supplies. Suddenly, the trench opened up, and George realised he was on the front line at last.
He could see about forty yards down the deep trench which had been cut into the white chalk soil. Make shift wooden supports held up the walls and formed platforms which were manned by lookouts using tatty wooden periscopes. Men were huddled in holes, around fires and under canvas. They too looked grey and dishevelled. George presented his supplies to a large unshaven man who was wearing a filthy apron. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, which he only removed when he wanted to spit. When he had checked the supplies, the big man returned to stirring a huge cauldron, which was full of a thin boiling stew, which smelt of cabbage and little else.
The unit was broken down into groups of fifteen and marched as best they could down the trench where they were told to organise themselves into watch duties, a minimum of five men to be on duty at one time.
George and Peter volunteered to take the night shift and were told to stand down until midnight.
The snow had begun to settle on the sides of the trench and on the parapet. Some had even settled on the covers of men who crouched or sat perfectly still on the steps that led to the top.
George remained silent. He felt moved by the resilience of those around him. He looked into the faces of some of the men and then quickly looked away if they caught his eye. He struggled to determine their ages. They all seemed to share a common weariness. A small group was sitting on upturned ammunition boxes, using the top of a water barrel for a table. And to George’s surprise, they began to laugh and joke.
They handed round a cap from which each of them drew small pieces of paper. “Remember, it is first one up to five, winner gets a packet of snout from the rest. If there is no clear cut result then the lottery ends next Thursday, highest score wins.” The group of six men nodded their agreement. Then one by one they unfolded the ten or so pieces of paper in front of them reading out what George assumed to be the names of their colleagues.
“I don’t believe it, Morrison,” laughed one of the men, “I’ve only gone and drawn you again.”
“Third time lucky hey?” Replied a tall skinny spotty youth who George assumed was Morrison.
George turned to Peter who was rubbing his hands and blowing warm air onto them. George shook his head and frowned, Peter said nothing, he simply shrugged his shoulders.
After ten minutes the group broke up and two of the men sat next to Peter and George. They introduced themselves as Arnold and Norman. They explained that they were from Durham and had been in the area since the end of October. In answer to Peter’s question, Norman explained that it had been pretty quiet for most of the time they had been on the front. “The odd raid and occasional recognisance,” he said, “checking ‘Jerry’s,’ defences, that’s about all.” They told Peter and George where to get a hot drink and to keep their supplies off the ground at night or the rats would get into them.
The snow continued to fall, covering everything and everyone. Peter and George moved closer to a brazier, which burnt bright. George could feel its warmth on his face. He looked around and all he could see were the vacant faces of men blowing steam from the tops of tin mugs, which were filled with tea that tasted of onions. Their eyes stared into the flames, they never seemed to blink.
At five to twelve, Peter and George went back to their equipment and made their way a few yards down the trench being careful not to stand on one of the many men who lay huddled together covered in blankets which in turn were covered in a thick layer of snow.
“Bloody hell I’m pleased to see you two,” whispered Sid as he climbed down from the observation step, “I thought my face was going to stick to that ruddy thing,” he said, raising his eyes toward the periscope.
“Nothing to report,” said David, following procedure, precisely. “See you two in the morning.”
Sid and David shuffled off into the night. George decided to take the first watch, stepped up to the periscope and took his first look into no mans land.
Seconds later he instinctively ducked his head as a very light from the allied side whooshed skyward, burst with a crack and hung in the sky like Christ’s star. It lit the land around them, Peter smiled up at George and then squinted as he looked directly at the burning brightness.
George looked into the periscope and feasted his eyes on a sight he found strangely beautiful and deeply moving.
The snow had gathered on the wire and was forming a mass of spiralling white shapes in front of him as far as he could see. A slight incline on the ground ahead led up to the German lines and he could see the movement of enemy periscopes glinting, looking back at him. The ground was covered with thick perfect virgin snow, which formed smooth glistening waves across the line.
Another flare shot skywards about half a mile down the line, and George could see both front lines where they snaked over the hill and into the distance. It was as if the whole world was lit by falling stars, creating the effect of a day in moments as they glided gracefully across the sky, shifting shadows, moving shapes between the lines.
When a third flare took to the sky on George’s left, he heard cheering from directly in front of him, followed by an ‘ooh,’ of approval and laughter.
George smiled and nodded his head; he looked down at Peter who pulled on George’s coat and reached for the periscope. “What’s going on George?” He called as George stepped aside and let his friend take a look. “Bloody hell, will you take a look at that?” He whispered under his breath.
After a few minutes, the flares crashed in to the ground and the scene returned to silent darkness.
“Hello Fritz,” came a voice which George thought was around fifty yards away to his right. “Hello Fritz, can you hear me? It’s Tommy here, can you hear me?” George scrambled up along side Peter being careful to keep his head below the line of the trench. He held his rifle in front of him and his eyes flicked from side to side as he strained to see into the darkness.
Whoosh, again Peter and George ducked as the flare shot over their heads.
“Ooh,” came the response from the German trenches. “Hello Tommy, Hello Tommy we like to see your fireworks.”
“You send some over Fritz, it’s your turn.”
“Bloody hell,” said Peter who suddenly snatched at his weapon, and awkwardly pulled back the bolt, forcing a bullet into the chamber. He looked at George, his eyes wide, the sides of his face twitching. George made ready too and lifted himself up taking a look over the top.
“Tommy, don’t shoot Tommy.”
George could see the figure of a man who was about fifty yards away weaving his way slowly through the maze of barbed wire on the German side. He had his hands raised above his head. George frowned at Peter who looked blankly back at him.
“There,” said Peter in a load whisper, “and there.”
“Look,” said George who had glanced to his right, where he saw one of the Essex standing on top the parapet with no weapon. He turned and pulled up one of his friends. They both began to make their way forward, snagging their legs and stumbling as their clothes were caught on the wire.
George and Peter remained in their positions but felt confident enough to lift their heads above the top of the trench enabling them to watch as hundreds of bedraggled men rapped in layers of green and grey met and embraced like long lost brothers between the lines.
Another flare took to the sky, this time from the German lines and another and another and another. The sky was bright like day, and the men cheered and laughed.
Peter lifted his body onto the top of the trench and stood looking out across no mans land. He looked down at George and smiled, then he laughed and shook his head. He reached down and took George by the hand and raised him up. Another flare took to the sky and as it did George noticed that as far as he could see to the left and to the right, the white snow was broken by men standing, cheering and laughing.
But not more than a few hundred yards from that joy a man in grey cursed. He could feel anger rising in him hot and tense. When he thought of the enemy he had no wish to shake their hands. There were no thoughts of piece in his cold heart. He sat next to a tiny smoky candle writing notes which he guarded from prying eyes, pressing frantically onto a small pad using a carefully sharpened pencil. The sweet sound of celebration from those around him caused his shoulders to rise and stiffen. He shook his head and thought for a moment about hurling a stick grenade into the crowd. He imagined the carnage it would cause, and as he imagined the scene he felt cheered him a moment. The man in grey knew he would have to wait, but he knew too his time would come.
Peter began to step forward, but George grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Peter frowned at his friend who smiled and shook his head. “This is far enough Peter. Let’s not go any further. We don’t want to get ourselves in any trouble after all.” Peter bit his lip and nodded.
They stood and watched and cheered and laughed as the flares lit the winter sky. Suddenly a very different sound roared above, with a whiz and a bang, a shell from the British side burst in no mans land sending the men darting and diving back toward their own possitions. Peter and George dived for cover and took up their arms once more. George could hear laughing as the men returned to the trench, they called out to each other to hurry up and he could hear them diving into the trench all around him breathing heavily and giggling like children who had made a quick run for it after being caught steeling apples.
Another flare showed the scene to be deserted, and all was quiet once more.
“Tommy,” came the voice across the divide, “have a good Christmas Tommy.”
George smiled and sat back down on the step. “I didn’t expect this Peter.”
Peter smiled down at him.
“You to Fritz, merry Christmas. You take care,” called a cockney voice from down the line.
That night, when Peter and George had been relieved, George fell asleep to the sound of beautiful singing voices gliding across the wire and into the trenches. The voices sung in German, and although he didn’t recognise the words he knew the tune as Silent Night, Holy Night. The voices sounded young and innocent, they didn’t seem to be of monsters, just of men, men like him and Peter, Sid and David. Men more suited to wielding a scythe than firing a gun.